lundi, 25 août 2014

In Political Theology[2], his short book on the concept of sovereignty, Carl Schmitt states that: “Sovereign is he who decides on the exception.”[1] Sovereignty means supreme political authority, as opposed to political subjection. Within a society, the sovereign is the ruler, as opposed to the ruled. A sovereign nation rules itself, as opposed to being ruled by others.

For Schmitt, law and bureaucracy can deal with normal day-to-day life. But, as Aristotle pointed out, generalizations about human affairs pertain only “for the most part.” In addition to normal circumstances, there are exceptional circumstances, in which functionaries cannot simply apply the existing laws.

Thus supreme power cannot lie in laws which are administered by bureaucracies. Supreme power reposes in the person who decides what to do in exceptional cases, when the codifications of past experience are not enough to guide us.

Schmitt’s concept of sovereignty is beguilingly simple, but when one thinks it through, the implications for the liberal project are devastating.

One of the leading slogans of liberalism is “government by laws, not men,” meaning that sovereignty ultimately rests with laws rather than individual men. The desirability of government by laws can be appreciated by imagining a utopia in which there are no laws, just a wise and benevolent judge who looks at the unique circumstances of every dispute and intuits the just decision.

There are two basic problems with this utopia.

First, there is no guarantee that the judge will always be wise and benevolent, and if he fails to deliver justice, then we would need a way to remedy the situation. That remedy cannot consist simply of another man who is empowered to fix the problem, because what if he becomes corrupt or capricious? Obviously, we cannot leave decisions in the hands of men. There have to be principles for evaluating decisions and rules for reviewing and correcting them, which means: reposing sovereignty in general principles or laws.

Second, if every dispute is treated as a unique situation with a unique just outcome, this makes life rather unpredictable. But unpredictability undermines social cooperation, order, and progress. Large business endeavors, for example, involve tremendous financial risks. But people will hesitate to undertake such risks if there is not a legal structure in place that allows them to predict the likely outcomes of certain conflicts. Therefore, we need a code of general laws. And since a lot of conflicts are pretty much the same, there’s no harm in having general rules to adjudicate them.

The liberal dream is to insure that everyone is treated justly by submitting all human decisions to rules. These rules can be applied according to other rules. Individual decision-makers can not only follow rules, they can be chosen according to still other rules, and their positions can based on objective qualifications, i.e., educational attainments and professional certifications. The aim is a society in which justice is produced by a well-oiled, rule-governed machine free of human bias, arbitrariness, and corruption.

In order to insure that the machine performs, it must have built-in self-monitoring and self-correcting mechanisms. It need not depend upon the moral or intellectual virtues of its functionaries if it can watch all their actions, double-check all their decisions, and reward or punish them accordingly. Just as the Catholic sacraments can be dispensed by a corrupt priest, justice can be produced by bored, cynical, and indifferent bureaucrats as long as the machine functions according to its rules.

In sum:

Liberalism wishes to repose sovereignty in law, not men, the ultimate law being the constitution, which is the blueprint of a vast justice-and-fairness dispensing machine.

Liberalism believes that human decision is a corrupting force in government, thus decisions must be eliminated where possible and subjected to rules where unavoidable. The ideal government is a machine, like the Newtonian mechanical model of the universe which requires no recourse to divine intervention. Decisions in government is like miracles in nature: “arbitrary” ghosts to be exorcised from the machine.

Liberalism believes that sovereignty can be divided, i.e., that the machinery of government can diagnose and correct itself. This includes such notions as judicial review and bureaucratic auditing, but at the highest constitutional level, it is the idea of of the separation of powers, which “check” and “balance” each other.

Liberalism believes that if government is sufficiently rule-governed and self-correcting, it need not depend on extraordinary human moral virtue. Honest, wise, and disinterested men are rare, but all people wish to enjoy pleasure and avoid pain. Thus the most stable foundation of political order is greed and fear. Optimally dispensing such awards and punishments requires extensive surveillance and auditing, so nobody gets away with anything.

Just as hell is an instrument of divine love, the modern bureaucratic surveillance state is an instrument of liberal fairness.

The weakness of the liberal model is that human decisions can only be regulated by general rules when dealing with normal circumstances, i.e., with circumstances anticipated by legislators and that thus fall under their rules. But what about exceptional circumstances that do not fall under rules, circumstances that were not foreseen and provided for in advance? These call for decisions. Now, in the case of a judge or a bureaucrat, these decisions can be subjected to higher order review, which can itself be governed by rules.

But what happens when we get to the very top of the legal hierarchy, the constitution itself? What happens when a constitutional order encounters a situation that was not anticipated by the founders and cannot be subsumed under their laws? Then the preservation of the constitutional order depends upon human decision, rather than decision depending upon the constitutional order. Decisions can be guided by the constitution only in circumstances foreseen by the founders. In exceptional circumstances, decisions must be guided by something higher.

Sovereignty thus lies in the hands of men who decide in exceptional circumstances. Specifically, they decide when exceptional circumstances are at hand, and they decide what to do about them. At that point, the only thing that the legal system can do is specify who is empowered to make such decisions.

If sovereignty ultimately reposes in men, not laws, this is true even in liberal systems which officially deny it. Liberal societies are simply ruled by secret sovereigns, men who exercise decision as they hide behind the laws. In liberal society, there are two kinds of secret sovereigns.

First, there are the founders, the framers of the constitutional order who decided what the fundamental laws will be. Laws are ultimately created by decisions. Thus those who believe that decisions must always be governed by laws are simply abandoning their own freedom and responsibility and choosing to be ruled by the free decisions of those who came before them. Just as the deist model of the universe depends upon divine wisdom to frame its laws and set the machine in motion, liberals depend on the human wisdom of the Founders who created the constitution.

Second, since the founders of a liberal system could not anticipate every exceptional circumstance, sovereignty must be exercised in the present day as well. Some liberal societies actually make constitutional provisions granting unlimited dictatorial power to an individual in emergency situations, for instance, article 48 of the Weimar constitution, which Adolf Hitler invoked to take dictatorial power. But if a society makes no legal provisions for sovereign decisions in emergency situations, such decisions must still be made. Thus they will be made outside the framework of the official state. Such decisions may be made by important political figures, but not in their official capacities, which do not permit such decisions.

This, of course, is what is meant by the idea of a “deep state[3],” which, interestingly enough, is a Turkish contribution to contemporary political discourse. The Turkish idea of the deep state (derin devlet) refers to a network concentrated in the military and security services but spread throughout the bureaucracy and judiciary and intersecting with organized crime. The deep state works to maintain Turkey as a secular, nationalist society, primarily working against Islamists, Left-wing radicals, and Kurdish separatists. (The Turkish deep state seems to intersect with the crypto-Jewish Dönmeh[4] community.)

A similar deep state heaved into the light in Egypt, when the Supreme Council of Armed Forces,[5] in response the the Egyptian Revolution of 2011, removed President Hosni Mubarak from power. The SCAF then called elections, ceded power to the winner, Mohamed Morsi, and dissolved itself in June of 2012. In July of 2013, when Morsi proved unable to govern, he was removed in a military coup led by SCAF member Abdel Fattah el-Sisi, who is now the President of Egypt. After the coup, SCAF was officially reactivated, although it members were surely in close and constant contact with each other during its official hiatus, particularly in the run up to the coup.

The concept of a deep state overlaps with such notions as an establishment, a permanent bureaucracy, secret agencies, smoke-filled rooms, lobbies, political “inner parties,” NGOs and Quangos, and even secret societies[6], all of which shape political policy and negotiate between interest groups, which is just politics as usual. But in Schmittian terms, this has nothing to do with sovereignty, which is comes to light when politics as usual breaks down. And in the cases of Turkey and Egypt, when the political system had been paralyzed by crisis, the deep state centered in the military has intervened to preserve a secular, nationalist political order.

Since White Nationalists aim at creating the next political system in North America and in white nations around the globe, and since we are counting on the present system to collapse under the weight of external shocks and internal corruption, it behooves us to understand where sovereignty resides in the present system. If, for example, the American system entered a constitutional crisis, who would exercise sovereign power to preserve the system? Where does the American deep state lie? Or, better: where would it emerge? What is the system’s last line of defense? Who will kill and die to preserve it?

Organized Jewry is the most powerful force in America today. In terms of politics as usual, Jews get their way in all matters that concern them. But although organized Jewry surely would intersect with an American sovereign deep state, if America faced a severe constitutional crisis, I do not think that Jews would step in to exercise the sovereign decision-making functions necessary to preserve the system. They would surely try to stave off a crisis for as long as possible, to preserve their wealth and power. But ultimately, I do not think they would risk their own blood and treasure to preserve the American system, for the simple reason that the Jews today show no sign of caring about America’s long-term viability. It’s not their country, and they act like it. They are just using it, and using it up. They are not stewarding it for future generations. In a real crisis, I think their deepest instinct would be simply to decamp to friendlier climes.

Would the American deep state emerge in the military? The military is currently the branch of government that Americans hold in highest esteem. But a fatal crisis might include catastrophic military failure. It might also involve the American military massacring civilians. In which case, the military would enjoy very low esteem, and all Bonapartism would be off.

Liberal societies may be especially brittle when faced with systemic crises because liberalism corrodes virtue and excellence. Modern political thought promised stability by founding political order on widespread vices — greed and cowardice – rather than rare virtues like moderation, courage, wisdom, justice, and honor. But when the liberal machine breaks down — when it can no longer master crises — when it can no longer dispense rewards and punishments — when it it depends for its salvation on the decisions of a sovereign, then liberalism’s very existence will require the virtues that it neglects if not outright disdains.

If you want to see real terror in an American’s eyes, simply propose a new constitutional convention. Most Americans would never trust their contemporaries with framing a new system because they believe, correctly, they they are not just silly and ignorant but also downright vicious.

Wherever sovereignty would ultimately repose in a systemic crisis — wherever a deep state would emerge — what separates a true White Nationalist from a mere race-conscious reactionary is recognizing the system’s ultimate guardians as our worst enemies[7].

dimanche, 20 juillet 2014

If the industrious man, through taking action,Does not succeed, he should not be blamed for that –He still perceives the truth. ～The Sauptikaparvan of the Mahābhārata (2,16)

If we could select a single aspect by which to define Julius Evola, it would have been his desire to transcend the ordinary and the world of the profane. It was characterized by a thirst for the Absolute, which the Germans call mehr als leben – “more than living.” This idea of transcending worldly existence colours not only his ideas and philosophy, it is also evident throughout his life which reads like a litany of successes. During the earlier years Evola excelled at whatever he chose to apply himself to: his talents were evident in the field of literature, for which he would be best remembered, and also in the arts and occult circles.

Born in Rome on the 19th of May in 1898, Giulio Cesare Andrea Evola was the son of an aristocratic Sicilian family, and like many children born in Sicily, he had received a stringent Catholic upbringing. As he recalled in his intellectual autobiography, Il cammino del cinabro [1963, 1972, The Cinnabar's Journey], his favourite pastimes consisted of painting, one of his natural talents, and of visiting the library as often as he could in order to read works by Oscar Wilde, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Otto Weininger.[1] During his youth he also studied engineering, receiving excellent grades but chose to discontinue his studies prior to the completion of his doctorate, because he "did not wish to be bourgeois, like his fellow students." At the age of nineteen Evola joined the army and participated in World War I as a mountain artillery officer. This experience would serve as an inspiration for his use of mountains as metaphors for solitude and ascension above the chthonic forces of the earth. Evola was also a friend of Mircea Eliade, who kept in correspondence with Evola from 1927 until his death. He was also an associate of the Tibetologist Giuseppe Tucci and the Tantric scholar Sir John Woodroffe (Arthur Avalon).

Sir John Woodroffe

During his younger years Evola was briefly involved in art circles, and despite this being only a short lived affair, it was also a time that brought him great rewards. Though he would later denounce Dada as a decadent form of art it was within the field of modern art that Evola first made his name, taking a particular interest in Marinetti and Futurism. His oil painting, Inner Landscape, 10:30 a.m., is hanging today on a wall of the National Gallery of Modern Art in Rome.[2] He also composed Arte Astratta (Abstract Art) but later, after experiencing a personal crisis, turned to the study of Nietzsche, from which sprang his Teoria dell, individuo assoluto (Theory of the Absolute Individual) in 1925. By 1921 Evola had abandoned the pursuit of art as the means to place his unique mark on the world. The revolutionary attitudes of Marinetti, the Futurist movement and the so-called avant-garde which had once fascinated him, no longer appeared worthwhile to Evola with their juvenile emphasis on shocking the bourgeois. Likewise, despite being a talented poet, Evola (much like another of his inspirations – Arthur Rimbaud) abandoned poetry at the age of twenty four. Evola did not write another poem nor paint another picture for over forty years. Thus, being no longer enamored of the arts, Evola chose instead to pursue another field entirely that he would one day award him even greater acclaim.

To this day, the magical workings of the Ur Group and its successor Krur remain as some of the most sophisticated techniques for the practice of esoteric knowledge laid down in the modern Western era. Based on a variety of primary sources, ranging from Hermetic texts to advanced Yogic techniques, Evola occupied a prominent role in both of these groups. He wrote a number of articles for Ur and edited many of the others. These articles were collected in the book Introduction to Magic: Rituals and Practical Techniques for the Magus, which alongside Evola’s articles, are included the works of Arturo Reghini, Giulio Parese, Ercole Quadrelli and Gustave Meyrink. The original title of this work in Italian, Introduzione alla Magia quale scienza dell’lo, literally translates as Introduction to Magic as a Science of the “I”.[3] In this sense, the 'I' is best interpreted as the ego, or the manipulation of the will – an idea which is also the found in the work of that other famous magician, Aleister Crowley and his notion of Thelema. The original format of Ur was as a monthly publication, of which the first issue was printed in January 1927.[4]

Contributors to this publication included Count Giovanni di Caesaro, a Steinerian, Emilio Servadio, a distinguished psychoanalyst, and Guido de Giorgio, a well-known adherent of Rudolph Steiner and an author of works on the Hermetic tradition. It was during this period, that he was introduced to Arturo Reghini, whose ideas would leave a lasting impression on Evola. Arturo Reghini (1878-1946), who was interested in speculative Masonry and the anthroposophy of Rudolf Steiner, introduced Evola to Guénon's writings and invited him to join the Ur group. Ur and its successor, Krur, gathered together a number of people interested in Guénon's exposition of the Hermetic tradition and in Vedanta, Taoism, Buddhism, Tantra, and magic.

Arturo Reghini was to be a major influence on Evola, and himself was a representative of the so-called Italian School (Scuola Italica), a secret order which claimed to have survived the downfall of the Roman Empire, to have re-emerged with Emperor Frederic II, and to have inspired the Florentine poets of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, up to Petrarch. Like Evola, Reghini had also written articles, one of which was entitled "Pagan Imperialism." This appeared in Salamandra in 1914, and in it Reghini summed up his anti-Catholic program for a return to a glorious pagan past. This piece had a profound impact on Evola, and it served as the inspiration for his similarly titled Imperialismo pagano. Imperialismo pagano, chronicling the negative effects of Christianity on the world, appeared in 1928. In the context of this work, Evola is the advocate of an anti-Roman Catholic pagan imperialism. According to Evola, Christianity had destroyed the imperial universality of the Roman Empire by insisting on the separation of the secular and the spiritual. It is from this separation that arose the inherent decadence and inward decay of the modern era. Out of Christianity’s implacable opposition to the healthy paganism of the Mediterranean world arose the secularism, democracy, materialism, scientism, socialism, and the "subtle Bolshevism" that heralded the final age of the current cosmic cycle: the age of "obscurity" the Kali-Yuga.[5] Imperialismo pagano was to be later revised in a German edition as Heidnischer Imperialismus. The changes that occurred in the text of Evola’s Imperialismo pagano in its translation as Heidnischer Imperialismus five years later were not entirely inconsequential. Although the fundamental concepts that comprised the substance of Evola’s thought remained similar, a number of critical elements were altered that would transform a central point in Evola's thinking. The "Mediterranean tradition" of the earlier text is consistently replaced with the "Nordic-solar tradition" in this translation.[6] In 1930 Evola founded his own periodical, La Torre (The Tower). La Torre, the heir to Krur, differed from the two earlier publications Ur and Krur in the following way, as was announced in an editorial insert:

"Our Activity in 1930 – To the Readers: Krur is transforming. Having fulfilled the tasks relative to the technical mastery of esotericism we proposed for ourselves three years ago, we have accepted the invitation to transfer our action to a vaster, more visible, more immediate field: the very plane of Western 'culture' and the problems that, in this moment of crisis, afflict both individual and mass consciousness […] for all these reasons Krur will be changed to the title La Torre (The Tower), a work of diverse expressions and one Tradition."[7]

La Torre was attacked by official fascist bodies such as L’Impero and Anti-Europa, and publication of La Torre ceased after only ten issues. Evola also contributed an article entitled Fascism as Will to Imperium and Christianity to the review Critica Fascista, edited by Evola's old friend Giuseppi Bottai. Here again he launches vociferous opposition to Christianity and attests to its negative effects, evident in the rise of a pious, hypocritical, and greedy middle class lacking in all superior solar virtues that Evola attributed to ancient Rome. The article did not pass unnoticed and was vigorously attacked in many Italian periodicals. It was also the subject of a long article in the prestigious Revue Internationale des Sociétés Secrètes (Partie Occultiste) for April 1928, under the title Un Sataniste Italien: Jules Evola.

Coupled with the notoriety of Evola's La Torre, was also another, more bizarre incident involving the Ur Group's reputation, and their attempts to form a "magical chain." Although these attempts to exert supernatural influence on others were soon abandoned, a rumour quickly developed that the group had wished to kill Mussolini by these means. Evola describes this event in his autobiography Il Cammino del Cinabro.

"Someone reported this argument [that the death of a head of state might be brought about by magic] and some yarn about our already dissolved 'chain of Ur' may also have been added, all of which led the Duce to think that there was a plot to use magic against him. But when he heard the true facts of the matter, Mussolini ceased all action against us. In reality Mussolini was very open to suggestion and also somewhat superstitious (the reaction of a mentality fundamentally incapable of true spirituality). For example, he had a genuine fear of fortune-tellers and any mention of them was forbidden in his presence."

It was also during this period that Evola also discovered something which was to become a profound influence on many his ideas: the lost science of Hermeticism. Though he undoubtedly came into contact with this branch of mysticism through Reghini and fellow members of Ur, it seems that Evola’s extraordinary knowledge of Hermeticism actually arose from another source. Jacopo da Coreglia writes that it was a priest, Father Francesco Olivia, who had made the most far-reaching progress in Hermetic science and – sensing a prodigious student – granted Evola access to documents that were usually strictly reserved for adepts of the narrow circle. These were concerned primarily with the teachings of the Fraternity of Myriam (Fratellanza Terapeutica Magica di Myriam), founded by Doctor Giuliano Kremmerz, pseudonym of Ciro Formisano (1861-1930). Evola mentions in The Hermetic Tradition that Myriam’s Pamphlet D laid the groundwork for his understanding of the four elements.[8] Evola’s knowledge of Hermeticism and the alchemical arts was not limited to Western sources either, for he also knew an Indian alchemist by the name of C.S. Narayana Swami Aiyar of Chingleput.[9] During this era of history, Indian alchemy was almost completely unknown to the Western world, and it is only in modern times that it has been studied in relation to the occidental texts.

M is for Mussolini (not Murder)

In 1926 Evola published an article in Ultra (the newspaper of the Theosophical Lodge in Rome) on the cult of Mithras in which he placed major emphasis on the similarities of these mysteries with Hermeticism.[10] During this period he also wrote Saggi sull’idealismo magico (1925; Essays on Magic Idealism), and L’individuo ed il divenire del mondo (1926; The Individual and the Becoming of the World). This article was to be followed by the publication of his treatise on alchemy, La Tradizione ermetica (The Hermetic Tradition). Such was the scope and depth of this work that Karl Jung even quoted Evola to support his own contention that "the alchemical opus deals in the main not just with chemical experiments as such, but also with something resembling psychic processes expressed in pseudo-chemical language."[11] Unfortunately, the support expressed by Jung was not mutual, for Evola did not accept Jung's hypothesis that alchemy was merely a psychic process.

Taking issue with René Guénon's (1886-1951) view that spiritual authority ranks higher than royal power, Evola wrote L’uomo come potenza (Man as power); in the third revised edition (1949), the title was changed to Lo yoga della potenza (The yoga of power).[12] This was Evola's treatise of Hindu Tantra, for which he consulted primary sources on Kaula Tantra, which at the time were largely unknown in the Western world. Decio Calvari, president of the Italian Independent Theosophical League, introduced Evola to the study of Tantrism.[13] Evola was also granted access to authentic Tantric texts directly from the Kaula school of Tantrism via his association with Sir John Woodroofe, who was not only a respected scholar, but was also a Tantric practitioner himself, under the famous pseudonym of Arthur Avalon. A substantial proportion of The Yoga of Power is derived from Sir John Woodroofe's personal notes on Kaula Tantrism. Even today Woodroofe is regarded as a leading pioneer in the early research of Tantrism.

Evola's opinion that the royal or Ksatriya path in Tantrism outranks that of the Brahmanic or priestly path, is readily supported by the Tantric texts themselves, in which the Vira or active mode of practice is exalted above that of the priestly mode in Kaula Tantrism. In this regard, the heroic or solar path of Tantrism represented to Evola, a system based not on theory, but on practice – an active path appropriate to be taught in the degenerate epoch of the Hindu Kali Yuga or Dark Age, in which purely intellectual or contemplative paths to divinity have suffered a great decrease in their effectiveness.

In the words of Evola himself:

"During the last years of the 1930s I devoted myself to working on two of my most important books on Eastern wisdom: I completely revised L’uomo come potenza (Man As Power), which was given a new title, Lo yoga della potenza (The Yoga of Power), and wrote a systematic work concerning primitive Buddhism entitled La dottrina del risveglio (The Doctrine of Awakening)."[14]

Evola's work on the early history of Buddhism was published in 1943. The central theme of this work is not the common view of Buddhism, as a path of spiritual renunciation – instead it focuses on the Buddha's role as a Ksatriya ascetic, for it was to this caste that he belonged, as is found in early Buddhist records.

The historical Siddharta was a prince of the Śakya, a kṣatriya (belonging to the warrior caste), an "ascetic fighter" who opened a path by himself with his own strength. Thus Evola emphasizes the "aristocratic" character of primitive Buddhism, which he defines as having the "presence in it of a virile and warrior strength (the lion's roar is a designation of Buddha’s proclamation) that is applied to a nonmaterial and atemporal plane…since it transcends such a plane, leaving it behind." [15]

Siddharta's warrior youth.

The book considered by many to be Evola’s masterpiece, Revolt Against the Modern World was published in 1934, and was influenced by Oswald Spengler's Decline of the West (1918) and René Guénon's The Crisis of the Modern World (1927), both of which had been previously translated into Italian by Evola. Spengler's contribution in this regard was the plurality of civilizations, which then fell into patterns of birth, growth and decline. This was combined with Guénon's ideas on the "Dark Age" or Hindu Kali Yuga, which similarly portrays a bleak image of civilizations in decline. The work also draws upon the writings of Bachofen in regards to the construction of a mythological grounding for the history of civilizations. The original version of Julius Evola's The Mystery of the Grail formed an appendix to the first edition of Rivolta contra il mondo moderno, and as such is closely related to this work.[16] Three years later he reworked that appendix into the present book, which first appeared as part of a series of religious and esoteric studies published by the renowned Laterza Publishers in Italy, whose list included works by Sigmund Freud, Richard Wilhelm, and C. G. Jung, among others. In this book Evola writes three main premises concerning the Grail myths: That the Grail is not a Christian Mystery, but a Hyperborean one, that it is a mystery tradition, and that it deals with a restoration of sacred regality. Evola describes his work on the Grail in the epilogue to the first edition (1937).

"To live and understand the symbol of the Grail in its purity would mean today the awakening of powers that could supply a transcendental point of reference for it, an awakening that could show itself tomorrow, after a great crisis, in the form of an “epoch that goes beyond nations.” It would also mean the release of the so-called world revolution from the false myths that poison it and that make possible its subjugation through dark, collectivistic, and irrational powers. In addition, it would mean understanding the way to a true unity that would be genuinely capable of going beyond not only the materialistic – we could say Luciferian and Titanic – forms of power and control but also the lunar forms of the remnants of religious humility and the current neospiritualistic dissipation."[17]

Another of Evola’s books, Eros and the Mysteries of Love, could almost be seen as a continuation of his experimentation with Tantrism. Indeed, the book does not deal with the erotic principle in the normal of sense of the word, but rather approaches the topic as a highly conceptualized interplay of polarities, adopted from the Traditional use of erotic elements in eastern and western mysticism and philosophy. Thus what is described here is the path to sacred sexuality, and the use of the erotic principle to transcend the normal limitations of consciousness. Evola describes his book in the following passage:

"But in this study, metaphysics will also have a second meaning, one that is not unrelated to the world's origin since 'metaphysics' literally means the science of that which goes beyond the physical. In our research, this 'beyond the physical' will not cover abstract concepts or philosophical ideas, but rather that which may evolve from an experience that is not merely physical, but transpsychological and transphysiological. We shall achieve this through the doctrine of the manifold states of being and through an anthropology that is not restricted to the simple soul-body dichotomy, but is aware of 'subtle' and even transcendental modalities of human consciousness. Although foreign to contemporary thought, knowledge of this kind formed an integral part of ancient learning and of the traditions of varied peoples."[18]

Another of Evola's major works is Meditations Among the Peaks, wherein mountaineering is equated to ascension. This idea is found frequently in a number of Traditions, where mountains are often revered as an intermediary between the forces of heaven and earth. Evola was an accomplished mountaineer and completed some difficult climbs such as the north wall of the Eastern Lyskam in 1927. He also requested in his will that after his death the urn containing his ashes be deposited in a glacial crevasse on Mount Rosa.

Evola's main political work was Men Among the Ruins. This was to be the ninth of Evola's books to published in English. Written at the same time as Men Among the Ruins, Evola composed Ride the Tiger which is complementary to this work, even though it was not published until 1961. These books belong together and cannot really be judged separately. Men among the Ruins shows the universal standpoint of ideal politics; Riding the Tiger deals with the practical "existential" perspective for the individual who wants to preserve his "hegomonikon" or inner sovereignty.[19] Ride the Tiger is essentially a philosophical set of guidelines entwining various strands of his earlier thought into a single work. Underlying the more obvious sources, which Evola cites within the text, such as Nietzsche, Sartre and Heidegger, there are also connections with Hindu thoughts on the collapse of civilization and the Kali Yuga. In many ways, this work is the culmination of Evola's thought on the role of Tradition in the Age of Darkness – that the Traditional approach advocated in the East is to harness the power of the Kali Yuga, by ‘Riding the Tiger’ – which is also a popular Tantric saying. To this extent, it is not an approach of withdrawal from the modern world which Evola advocates, but instead achieving a mastery of the forces of darkness and materialism inherent in the Kali Yuga. Similarly, his attitude to politics alters here from that expressed in Men Among the Ruins, calling instead for a type of individual that is apoliteia.

"[...] this type can only feel disinterested and detached from everything that is 'politics' today. His principle will become apoliteia, as it was called in ancient times. [...] Apoliteia is the distance unassailable by this society and its 'values'; it does not accept being bound by anything spiritual or moral."[20]

In addition to Evola’s main corpus of texts mentioned previously, he also published numerous other works such as The Way of the Samurai, The Path of Enlightenment According to the Mithraic Mysteries, Il Cammino del Cinabro, Taoism: The Magic, The Mysticism and The Bow and the Club. He also translated Oswald Spengler's Decline of the West, as well as the principle works of Bachofen, Guénon, Weininger and Gabriel Marcel.

In 1945 Evola was hit by a stray bomb and paralyzed from the waist downwards. He died on June 11, 1974 in Rome. He had asked to be led from his desk to the window from which one could see the Janiculum (the holy hill sacred to Janus, the two-faced god who gazes into this and the other world), to die in an upright position. After his death the body was cremated and his ashes were scattered in a glacier atop Mount Rosa, in accordance with his wishes.

Gwendolyn Taunton is the editor and sole founder of Primordial Traditions. This article is reprinted from Primordial Traditions (second edition).

jeudi, 17 juillet 2014

Carl Schmitt’s two essays on “The Tyranny of Values” (1959[2] and 1967[3]) are typical of his work. They contain simple and illuminating ideas which are nevertheless quite difficult to piece together because Schmitt presents them only through complex conversations with other thinkers and schools of thought. In “The Tyranny of Values” essays, Schmitt’s target is “moralism,” which boils down to doing evil while one thinks one is doing good.

Schmitt is an enemy of political moralism because he thinks it has profoundly immoral consequences, meaning that it creates a great deal of needless conflict and suffering. Schmitt defends a somewhat amoral political realism because he thinks that its consequences are actually moral, insofar as it reduces conflict and suffering.

In Schmitt’s view, one of the great achievements of European man was to subject war to laws[4]. Schmitt calls this “bracketed” warfare. Wars had to be lawfully declared. They were fought between uniformed combatants who displayed their arms openly, were subject to responsible commanders, and adhered to the rules of war. Noncombatants and their property were protected. Prisoners were taken. The wounded were cared for. Neutral humanitarian organizations were respected. And wars could be concluded by peace treaties, because the aims of war were limited, and the enemy and his leaders were not criminalized or proscribed, but recognized as leaders of sovereign peoples with whom one could treat.

Schmitt makes it clear that the rules of war are something different from Christian “just war” theory. Bringing justice or morality into wars actually intensifies rather than moderates them. Indeed, the classical rules of war were quite cynical about morality and justice. Wars could be launched out of crude self-interest, but they could be terminated out of crude self-interest too. Leaders may not have been good enough to avoid wars, but neither were they bad enough that the war had to be prosecuted until their destruction. All parties recognized that if they were scoundrel enough to make war, they were also decent enough to make peace. But by limiting the intensity and duration of wars, this cynicism ended up serving a higher good.

Of course the ideal of “bracketed warfare” had its limits. It did not apply in civil wars or revolutions, since in these both parties deny the legitimacy or sovereignty of the other. Nor did it apply in colonial or anti-colonial wars, primarily fought against nonwhites, and the barbarism also spilled over to the treatment of rival European colonizers. Furthermore, within Europe herself, the ideal of bracketed warfare was often violated. But the remarkable thing is not that this ideal was violated—which is merely human—but that it was upheld in the first place.

If, however, war is moralized, then our side must be good and their side must be evil. Since reality is seldom so black and white, the first necessity of making war moral is to lie about oneself and one’s enemy. One must demonize the enemy while painting one’s own team as innocent and angelic victims of aggression. This is particularly necessary in liberal democracies, which must mobilize the masses on the basis of moralizing propaganda. In a fallen world, moralists are liars.

But the conviction that one is innocent and one’s enemy is evil licenses the intensification of conflict, for all the rules of bracketed warfare now seem to be compromises with evil. Furthermore, even though a negotiated peace is the swiftest and most humane way to end a war, if one’s enemy is evil, how can one strike a bargain with him? How can one accept anything less than complete and unconditional surrender, even though this can only increase the enemy’s resistance, prolong the conflict, and increase the suffering of all parties?

War can be moralized by religious or secular aims. But whether one fights in the name of Christ or Mohammed, or in the name of liberty, equality, and fraternity, the result is to prolong and intensify conflict and suffering.

Moralism, however, is destructive in the political realm as a whole, not just in war (which is merely politics by other means). In “The Tyranny of Values,” Schmitt is concerned with the injection of morality into the legal realm. But we must understand that Schmitt does not oppose moralizing law because he thinks that the law should be amoral or immoral. Instead, Schmitt thinks that the law is already sufficiently moral, insofar as it is capable of reducing conflict in society. Schmitt opposes the introduction of value theory into law because he thinks that it will increase social conflict, thus making the law less moral.

Schmitt’s argument is clearest in the 1959 version[2] of “The Tyranny of Values,” which was a talk given to an audience of about 40 legal theorists, philosophers, and theologians on October 23, 1959, in the village of Ebrach, Bavaria. Later, Schmitt had 200 copies of the paper printed up for distribution among friends and colleagues.

Schmitt points out that value theory emerged at the end of the 19th century as a response to the threat of nihilism. Up until that time, moral philosophy, politics, and law had managed to muddle through without value theory. But when the possibility of nihilism was raised, it seemed necessary to place values on a firm foundation. The three main value theorists Schmitt discusses are the sociologist Max Weber (1864–1920), who holds that values are subjective, and philosophers Nicolai Hartmann (1882–1950) and Max Scheler (1874–1928), who defended the idea of objective values.

Although many people believe that value relativism leads to tolerance, Schmitt understood that relativism leads to conflict:

The genuinely subjective freedom of value-setting leads, however, to an endless struggle of all against all, to an endless bellum omnium contra omnes. In such circumstances, the very presuppositions about a ruthless human nature on which Thomas Hobbes’ philosophy of the state rests, seem quite idyllic by comparison. The old gods rise from their graves and fight their old battles on and on, but disenchanted and, as we today must add, with new fighting means that are no longer weapons, but rather abominable instruments of annihilation and processes of extermination, horrible products of value-free science and of the technology and industrial production that follow suit. What for one is the Devil is God for the other. . . . It always happens that values stir up strife and keep enmity alive.

But Schmitt argues that objective values are not the solution to the conflicts created by subjective values:

Have the new objective values dispelled the nightmare which, to use Max Weber’s words, the struggle of valuations has left in store for us?

They have not and could not. To claim an objective character for values which we set up means only to create a new occasion for rekindling the aggressiveness in the struggle of valuations, to introduce a new instrument of self-righteousness, without for that matter increasing in the least the objective evidence for those people who think differently.

The subjective theory of values has not yet been rendered obsolete, nor have the objective values prevailed: the subject has not been obliterated, nor have the value carriers, whose interests are served by the standpoints, viewpoints, and points of attack of values, been reduced to silence. Nobody can valuate without devaluating, revaluating, and serving one’s interests. Whoever sets a value, takes position against a disvalue by that very action. The boundless tolerance and the neutrality of the standpoints and viewpoints turn themselves very quickly into their opposite, into enmity, as soon as the enforcement is carried out in earnest. The valuation pressure of the value is irresistible, and the conflict of the valuator, devaluator, revaluator, and implementor, inevitable.

A thinker of objective values, for whom the higher values represent the physical existence of the living human beings, respectively, is ready to make use of the destructive means made available by modern science and technology, in order to gain acceptance for those higher values. . . . Thus, the struggle between valuator and devaluator ends, on both sides, with the sounding of the dreadful Pereat Mundus [the world perish].

Schmitt’s point is that a theory of objective values must regard all contrary theories as false and evil and must struggle to overcome them, thus prolonging rather than decreasing social conflict. This is the meaning of “the tyranny of values.” Once the foundations of values have been challenged, conflict is inevitable, and the conflict is just as much prolonged by conservative defenders of objective values as by their subjectivistic attackers: “All of Max Scheler’s propositions allow evil to be returned for evil, and in that way, to transform our planet into a hell that turns into paradise for value.”

What, then, is Schmitt’s solution? First he offers an analogy between Platonic forms and moral values. Platonic forms, like moral values, cannot be grasped without “mediation”:

The idea requires mediation: whenever it appears in naked directness or in automatical self-fulfillment, then there is terror, and the misfortune is awesome. For that matter, what today is called value must grasp the corresponding truth automatically. One must bear that in mind, as long as one wants to hold unto the category of “value.” The idea needs mediation, but value demands much more of that mediation.

Recall that Schmitt is addressing legal theorists. His recommendation is that they abandon value theory, which is an attempt to grasp and apply values immediately and which can only dissolve civilization into conflict. He recommends instead that they return to and seek to preserve the existing legal tradition, which mediates and humanizes values.

In a community, the constitution of which provides for a legislator and a law, it is the concern of the legislator and of the laws given by him to ascertain the mediation through calculable and attainable rules and to prevent the terror of the direct and automatic enactment of values. That is a very complicated problem, indeed. One may understand why law-givers all along world history, from Lycurgus to Solon and Napoleon have been turned into mythical figures. In the highly industrialized nations of our times, with their provisions for the organization of the lives of the masses, the mediation would give rise to a new problem. Under the circumstances, there is no room for the law-giver, and so there is no substitute for him. At best, there is only a makeshift which sooner or later is turned into a scapegoat, due to the unthankful role it was given to play.

What Schmitt refers to obliquely as a “makeshift” in the absence of a wise legislator is simply the existing tradition of jurisprudence. This legal tradition may seem groundless from the point of view of value theorists. But it nevertheless helps mediate conflicts and reduce enmity, which are morally salutary results, and in Schmitt’s eyes, this is ground enough for preserving and enhancing it.

In the expanded 1967 version[3] of “The Tyranny of Values” the already vague lines of Schmitt’s argument are further obscured by new hairpin turns of the dialectic. But the crucial distinction between abstract value theory and concrete legal traditions is somewhat clearer. My comments are in square brackets:

The unmediated enactment of values [basing law on value theory] destroys the juridically meaningful implementation which can take place only in concrete forms, on the basis of firm sentences and clear decisions [legal traditions]. It is a disastrous mistake to believe that the goods and interests, targets and ideals here in question could be saved through their “valorization” [the foundations provided by value theory] in the circumstances of the value-freedom of modern scientism. Values and value theory do not have the capacity to make good any legitimacy [they do not provide foundations for jurisprudence]; what they can do is always only to valuate. [And valuation implies devaluation, which implies conflict.]

The distinction between fact and law, factum and jus, the identification of the circumstances of a case, on the one hand, appraisement, weighing, judicial discovery, and decision, on the other, the discrepancies in the report and the votes, the facts of the case and the reasons for decision, all that has long been familiar to the lawyers. Legal practice and legal theory have worked for millennia with measures and standards, positions and denials, recognitions and dismissals.

Legal tradition is founded on thousands of years of problem-solving and conflict resolution. It needs no other foundation. Value theory adds nothing to law, and it has the potential to subtract a great deal by increasing social conflict and misery. Schmitt’s “The Tyranny of Values” essays thus fall into the skeptical tradition of conservative social theory founded by David Hume, which argues that evolved social traditions are often wiser than theorists offering rational critiques — or rational foundations.

Urban deserts. Suburban deserts. Even in rural areas it is difficult to escape the commercially refined silicates of mechanized and meaningless modernity that blow over and bury the fossilized remains of dead gods and old ways. The desert — The Nothing[3] — grows and obscures and stifles all.

Describing the terrorized boredom of modern men, Ernst Jünger, quoting Nietzsche, warns: “woe to him in whom deserts hide.”

Jünger was writing in the aftermath of World War II about the chafing of his own individualism against the bureaucratic machine of Nazi Germany, and The Forest Passage makes mention of dictatorships. But, with uncanny foresight, he predicted our Twenty-First Century predicament, from the pointlessness of voting to near-constant surveillance and the neurotic need to know the news numerous times throughout the day. Jünger prophesied our states that make technicians into priests, while paving over institutions, like churches, which facilitate an inner spiritual life that the secular state is unable to control. That which cannot be counted, measured, or taxed cannot be permitted. This unquantifiable grain of existence that survives beyond the reach of the mechanized world is what Jünger identifies as freedom, and woe to him who knows only the desert, “woe to him who carries within not one cell of that primal substance that ensures fertility, again and again.”

Jünger’s forest is a spiritual oasis. It is not in the desert, but within it. The forest is everywhere — in the desert, in the bush, and in the enemy’s’ own backcountry — like an invisible layer of transcendent humanity and creative life energy that is seen only by those who choose to see it.

. . . it is essential to know that every man is immortal and that there is eternal life in him, an unexplored and yet inhabited land, which, though he himself may deny its existence, no timely power can take from him.

He doesn’t reference it directly, but one wonders if the forest is some kind of allusion to the Garden of Eden — some memory of pure, sinless and untainted man living in harmony with nature. Throughout the book, Jünger seems to be equating pure, primal human morality with Christ-like morality — which will seem an obvious error to everyone who is not a Christian, and a natural fact to anyone who is. The forest rebel — one who takes the forest passage — is so morally certain that, “he allows no superior power to dictate the law to him, neither through propaganda nor force.” This is somewhat problematic, because this kind of individualism-at-all-costs makes tribal life impossible, and therefore makes a new, better society impossible. Without hope for a better society and the ability to integrate into it and trust one’s peers, the forest rebel is just raging against the machine, and seems like a mere contrarian or malcontent.

The Christian morality of The Forest Passage is an integral part of it, but Jünger’s conception of it is so amorphous that it often seems Jungian or similar to the work of Joseph Campbell — it’s as if he’s superimposing Christian morality on all myths.

This brings me to my favorite line in the book, which opens up a point of entry for those of us who see a somewhat different forest: “Myth is not prehistory; it is timeless reality, which repeats itself in history.”

If we use the forest as a code for the timeless world of myth that exists in us, and choose to perceive it as being alive in something as cold and dead as shopping mall parking lot or a government building, we can experience life differently.

In a recent interview I did with Paul Waggener from the Wolves of Vinland[4], he said that Germanic mysticism was his life, and that the aim of ritual was to plant a seed that spreads out like the branches of a tree and affects every aspect of one’s life, until everything becomes ritual. One could say that a man who achieves this state of being is living in the forest, despite the desert.

The work of spiritual revolt in the desert, of keeping the forest alive and planting seeds of it in the sidewalk cracks of the mechanized world is what Jünger referred to as “the forest passage.”

In old Iceland, Jünger wrote, “A forest passage followed a banishment; through this action a man declared his will to self-affirmation from his own resources.” A man on the forest passage “‘takes the banishment in stride” and becomes his own warrior, physician, judge and priest.

Jünger warned forest rebels away from the controlled, predictable and pointless forms of rebellion, like voting “no,” and offered that a man scrawling “no” on a wall would have a greater impact on the minds of those around him. Spreading dissenting and destructive ideas and information can have a greater impact than making an official gesture that can be easily tracked, quantified and punished.

One can never know the true motives for the sniping of anonymous online characters today, and it is difficult to gauge their sincerity because they are ultimately accountable only to themselves and can easily change positions or be complete hypocrites. However, it is possible and likely that some are truly sincere and have chosen the forest passage because it allows them to do greater harm to the desert forces. Those who fund the operations of more public figures and organizations are also examples, as they must remain covert to continue to generate the income that they funnel into insurgent operations.

Jünger did understand that change would not come from ideas alone, and that action would also be necessary. In several passages, he predicted the necessity of service-disrupting fourth generation warfare tactics of the type outlined in John Robb’s Brave New War. The forest rebel,

. . . conducts his little war along the railway tracks and supply routes, he threatens bridges, communication lines, and depots. His presence wears on the enemy’s resources, forces them to multiply their posts. The forest rebel takes care of reconnaissance, sabotage, dissemination of information in the population.

However, Jünger wanted to be clear that while the forest rebel does not fight “according to martial law,” he does not fight like a bandit. He wasn’t clear what the difference is between a bandit and a rebel, and distinctions like this seem like little more than moral posturing. The controlled masses will see the actions of any forest rebel the way they see the acts of terrorists and criminals. After all, he saw how fragile our status as non-criminals was and would be, and wrote:

None of us can know today if tomorrow morning we will not be counted as part of a group considered outside the law. In that moment the civilized veneer of life changes, as the state props of well-being disappear and are transformed into omens of destruction. The luxury liner becomes a battleship, or the black jolly roger and the red executioner’s flag are hoisted on it.

This is one of the great strengths of The Forest Passage, and a good reason to read and contemplate it. Any of us could be forced into a position — such as prison — where solitary and spiritual revolt is the only form of revolt left available to us. Understanding the nature of power and the nature of the modern bureaucratic systems means understanding that you will receive no justice from the system, and that you may find yourself completely alone.

The resistance of the forest rebel is absolute: he knows no neutrality, no pardon, no fortress confinement. He does not expect the enemy to listen to arguments, let alone act chivalrously. He knows that the death penalty will not be waived for him. The forest rebel comes to learn a new solitude . . .

Like any prisoner of war who knows he will not be rescued, he is ultimately alone with his honor.

However useful, this focus on solitude and the absolute moral authority of the individual requires some sort of caveat. This kind of alienation and absolute individualism limits human connections and makes human relationships disposable. It is a product of and the way of the desert. It is the way of the inveterate consumer who chooses one identity today and another tomorrow, fearful of the risks associated with true commitment to other people.

The forest passage is a strategy for desperate and fearful times. It is a tool for the prisoner, whether behind bars, or behind a desk typing with a camera over his shoulder and some algorithmic authoritarian tagging and monitoring his keystrokes.

Any vision of a forest worth preserving must include a reconnection not only with myth, but with men. The end must be to find a tribe among the trees, or the forest itself, however magical, will forever be a lonely and fearful place, and it will offer little comfort from the encroaching desert.

dimanche, 01 juin 2014

“The history of mankind as a whole is tragic. But the sacrilege and the catastrophe of the Faustian are greater than all others, greater than anything Æschylus or Shakespeare ever imagined. The creature is rising up against its creator. As once the microcosm Man against Nature, so now the microcosm Machine is revolting against Nordic Man. The lord of the World is becoming the slave of the Machine, which is forcing him — forcing us all, whether we are aware of it or not — to follow its course. The victor, crashed, is dragged to death by the team.”

— Oswald Spengler, Man and Technics

The unique characteristics of Faustian civilization, as Spengler described it, are now leading Europe to destruction. The Faustian is characterized by a drive towards the infinite, a will to break through the boundaries that limit man, whether they be intellectual or physical. Spengler calls the prime symbol of the Faustian soul “limitless space.”[1] Like Goethe’s Faust, Faustian civilization seeks infinite knowledge.

However, as this civilization declines, limitless space becomes an all-consuming maw that threatens the survival of all traditions, the all-encompassing extension of the Faustian soul ensnaring all the peoples of the world in its decline. Faustian man, detached from the earth, is on course to share the fate of Icarus. The fruits of the Faustian mind — rationalism, universalism, liberalism, industrialism, and globalization — threaten identity and heritage on a global scale.

While it is true that all civilizations, no matter what their particulars are, are bound to die as all living organisms are bound to die, the unique characteristics of the Faustian decline are uniquely disastrous. Whereas the ethnic Romans and Persians survived the collapse of the Roman and Persian empires, Western man’s dying civilization threatens to physically eliminate him, while also spreading the contagion of liberalism to non-Western cultures.

The Faustian tendency to break down barriers has transmogrified into the toxic global homogenization of cultures and peoples in the waning stages of Western civilization, that enables foreign and internal threats to multiply. The Faustian mindset must be discarded if Western Europeans and their descendants ever hope to create another great civilization in the ruins of this one.

One of the root causes of the current situation is universalism, which does not respect the particular qualities of an ethnos. The Faustian concept of space necessitates universalism. We may take the Faustian embrace monotheism as a starting point for this tendency. As Spengler wrote, “The plurality of separate bodies which represents Cosmos for the Classical soul, requires a similar pantheon — hence the antique polytheism. The single world-volume, be it conceived as cavern or as space, demands the single god of Magian or Western Christianity.”[2] Instead of separate moral universes, the Faustian worldview accepts only one.

While this monotheistic worldview is not unique to Faustian civilization, the Magian soul’s cavern infers a certain limit to its sovereignty, as we see in Islamic theology, where the world is divided separate houses, one of which is the house of Islam, Dar al-Islam. The unbounded space of the Faustian soul merges seamlessly into the Hebrew Bible’s conception of space. In On Being A Pagan, Alain de Benoist characterizes the latter, “The universe is thus conceived in the Bible as a world with no spatial boundaries.”[3]

National borders, borders between religions, between ethnic groups, are erased in the Faustian mind, indeed no group has embraced biblical universalism to the extent that Faustian civilization has. No other civilization has ranged so far and so wide in their efforts to impose their morality upon the entirety of the world. Even the most ferocious of the Islamic expansions, including the Salafist trends of our day, pale in comparison to the sustained attempt of the West to convert the rest of the globe. We see these efforts in the Crusades of the Teutonic Knights against the pagan Balts, the Swedes waging war on the Orthodox Slavs of Novgorod, the Spaniards’ attempts to convert the Indian populations of the Americas, the civilizing mission of the British Empire, and into this day and age with America’s global War on Terror.

While some men may look upon these events as great triumphs of Western Civilization, they are really milestones in a trend of globalization reaching its pinnacle now. Faustian civilization, in many ways like the most Salafist strains of Islam, sees the need to impose a single moral vision upon the world, whether it be a colonial nation’s particular strain of Christianity, or liberal democracy.

Under Roman rule, different customs and beliefs could coexist within certain moral boundaries, a cosmos of separate moral planets. In contrast, the Faustian man believes that his particular morality extends to the ends of the earth. Hence Kant’s dictum, “Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law without contradiction.”

Thus international organizations and courts trample upon the sovereignty of peoples. The particulars of a man himself are stripped away, he is no longer German, an English, or Chinese, he is “man,” in the abstract. Any attempts to resists this alleged universal morality common to mankind are deemed criminal. Those who do not fall into line are primitives, heretics, or, to use more modern parlance, rogue states.

On the opposite end, the Faustian civilization is rendered rootless. There is nothing that could stand in the way of limitless space for there is no law without a universal character according to him. There can no longer be different standards of morality for different classes, genders, or any other social division. No longer is there a way of action and a way of contemplation, a way of kings and a way of priests, a way of men and a way of women, there is simply a universal way. Faustian civilization turned towards egalitarianism.

Political liberalism can be seen as the extension of a certain Anglo-Saxon mindset that grew under Christianity. Alain de Benoist states in The Problem of Democracy, “liberal democracies are rooted not so much in the spirit of ancient democracy as in Christian individualism, the rationalism of the Enlightenment, and the Anglo-Saxon Protestant spirit. In these democracies, the ‘citizen’ is not he who inhabits a history and a destiny through his belonging to a given people, but a rather an abstract, atemporal, and universal being, which regardless of any belonging, is the holder of ‘human rights’ decreed to be unalienable.”[4] Hence, politics ceased to be defined by the conditions of the polis itself. In the democracies of Ancient Greece, political freedoms were derived from being a member of a specific community, generally that which one was born into from autochthonous stock. In contrast to Classical civilization, Faustian civilization invented the universal rights of man, which appear to guarantee freedom from the bonds of community. Once again the theme of the replacement of the particular by the universal is evident. The rooted pillar of classical civilization is replaced by the infinite field of the Faustian.

The rootless political existence develops into rootless personal existence. The Faustian tendency towards uprooted modes of existence finds expression in postmodern philosophy. The boundless space of Faustian man is the home of the rhizome of Deleuze and Guattari, “It has neither beginning nor end.” The rhizome shares with Faustian physics a focus on motion and dynamics as opposed to discrete static objects, “It is composed not of units but of dimensions, or rather directions in motion.” Compare this with the Faustian focus on force, “There is no Western statics — that is, no interpretation of mechanical facts that is natural to the Western spirit bases itself on the ideas of form and substance, or even, for that matter, on the ideas of space and mass otherwise than in connexion with those of time and force.”[5] In both cases, the focus on actual substance, being, is reduced.

The criticism of being in their seminal text A Thousand Plateaus, displays certain Faustian characteristics as well. Here the rhizome is contrasted with the tree. Once again the symbol of rootedness is attacked by Faustian thought, with its additive and expansive qualities. “The tree imposes the verb ‘to be’, but the fabric of the rhizome is the conjunction, ‘and…and…and…’. This conjunction carries enough force to shake and uproot the verb ‘to be’.”

The contrast between the dynamic and the static becomes open conflict in the postmodernity of declining Faustian civilization where its expansiveness becomes full deterritorialization. What seems like abstract philosophy has a very real presence in the world. In the nomadic lifestyles imposed by many careers, where relocation across the face of the globe has become normal, in the fluid identities and fragmented subcultures of American youth, in global electronic networks, in globalization’s erosion of local economies, the rhizome dominates. Faustian dynamism and limitlessness has resulted in a world of scattered and broken spirits.

Due to the inherently limited nature of the physical world, the Faustian mind tends toward abstraction. Spengler’s discussion of the different conceptions of mathematics in instructive in this instance. “The beginning and end of the Classical mathematic is consideration of the properties of individual bodies and their boundary-surfaces; thus indirectly taking in conic sections and higher curves. We, on the other hand, at bottom know only the abstract space-element of the point, which can neither be seen, nor measured, nor yet named, but represents simply a centre of reference. The straight line, for the Greeks a measurable edge, is for us an infinite continuum of points.”[6] Classical mathematics is rooted in physical reality. It focuses on measurable quantities and physical shapes and surfaces. In contrast, Faustian mathematics is not constrained by what humans can touch, measure, or observe. We cannot count an infinite number of objects, nor have i (the square root of -1) of them, yet these concepts are integral to our mathematical system.

This retreat into the mind exacerbates the conflict between the physical and the intellectual. Instead of balance between mind and body, the Faustian mind gravitates towards logocentrism, a term most would associate with Derrida, but was coined by Conservative Revolutionary philosopher Ludwig Klages in his work The Intellect As Antagonist of the Soul.[7]

This movement towards the mental abstraction moves man away from the instinctive, the vital. Thus the Faustian tendency towards starry eyed idealism. Otto Reche speaks of “the powerfully rousing and simultaneously tragic song about the Nordic race and its idealism.”[8] At its worst it becomes a world denying tendency. Instead of experiencing the world in its mystery and majesty, we reduce it to what D. H. Lawrence termed a “thought form” a construct of abstract laws and facts existing only in our minds. As he says in “Introduction to the Dragon,”

. . . our sun and our moon are only thought-forms to us, balls of gas, dead globes of extinct volcanoes, things we know but never feel by experience. By experience, we should feel the sun as the savages feel him, we should ‘know’ him as the Chaldeans knew him, in a terrific embrace. But our experience of the sun is dead, we are cut off. All we have now is the thought -form of the sun. He is a blazing ball of gas, he has spots occasionally, from some sort of indigestion, and he makes you brown and healthy if you let him.[9]

Nietzsche correctly identified the retreat into the world of reason as a symptom of weakness. He states in the essay “Reason in Philosophy” from Twilight of the Idols, “To divide the world into a ‘real’ and ‘apparent’ world … is only a suggestion of decadence – symptom of declining life.” It is no great surprise that the West has wholeheartedly endorsed the Enlightenment program of rationalism, and its political emanation, liberalism. While rationalism is the mark of all declining civilizations throughout history, it aligns most intensely with the Faustian, whose affinity for abstraction was present at its birth. Indeed, we see in no other civilization an ideology like Enlightenment liberalism. Liberalism is a uniquely Western illness emerging from the Faustian decline.

Related to the Faustian tendency towards abstraction is the technical sophistication of Faustian civilization. Inventions spring from the unbounded Faustian mind. From the tools of abstract mathematics Faustian man has constructed the most precise and powerful theories of physical forces known to man. The combination of unlimited thought and dynamism enabled never before seen technological breakthroughs.

Indeed, not content with being in the world, Faustian man sought to create an artificial paradise. Spengler characterizes this attitude in Man and Technics “To build a world oneself, to be oneself God — that is the Faustian inventor’s dream, and from it has sprung all our designing and re-designing of machines to approximate as nearly as possible to the unattainable limit of perpetual motion.”

Spengler was keenly aware of the consequences of this mechanical world. In industrial societies the rise of alienation is seen, “And now, since the eighteenth century, innumerable ‘hands’ work at things of which the real role in life (even as affecting themselves) is entirely unknown to them and in the creation of which, therefore, they have inwardly no share. A spiritual barrenness sets in and spreads, a chilling uniformity without height or depth.”

No longer is the producer a traditional craftsman who handles the creation of goods from start to finish. He is merely performing one action of many required for the assembly of an object. The laborer’s dignity is diminished on the factory floor. This in turn breeds social conflict between the laborers and the managerial class. “The tension between work of leadership and work of execution has reached the level of a catastrophe. The importance of the former, the economic value of every real personality in it, has become so great that it is invisible and incomprehensible to the majority of the underlings. In the latter, the work of the hands, the individual is now entirely without significance.”

In addition to the social consequences, there are irreversible and wide-ranging ecological consequences. The depletion of natural resources, the elimination of species, the poisoning of our food, and water supplies, anthropogenic climate change. It is not alarmist to state that technology threatens life on earth. Spengler noted in 1931, “All things organic are dying in the grip of organization. An artificial world is permeating and poisoning the natural.”

In addition to the existential threat posed by technology, it greatly enhances the foreign threats against Faustian civilization. The expansive nature of Faustian man to spread to all the corners of the map, is mimicked by his technology. In the quest for ever greater profits and power, industry has spread all over the world. We may think this to be a late 20th-century problem linked with globalization, but it was already in motion in Spengler’s time, with Japan emerging as an industrial power in Asia. It has only increased in our time, with the outsourcing of industry and the spread of advanced weaponry to peoples who could not have possibly invented them. Global industrialization simultaneously has strengthened the power of non-Western peoples, while sapping the strength of the native working class in the West. Faustian technology, operating hand-in-hand with the forces of capital, has enabled the mass movement of foreign peoples into formerly homogeneous nations. While mass immigration has no one single cause, it is effectively, to use Alain de Benoist’s notable turn of phrase, “the reserve army of capital.” In his essay of the same title, Benoist notes how the French construction and automobile industries deployed trucks in the Maghreb to recruit immigrant labor. While it is true that other civilizations have imported foreign labor, only the late Faustian civilization has done it on such a scale as to threaten the survival of their national ethnic integrity. The combination of borderless thought and high technology now threatens the survival of the very people who dreamed up such ideas, as the threat of Europeans becoming minorities in their own homelands grows.

Perhaps a stronger descriptor than Faustian for the civilization that is our subject would be Titanic. Titanic in the sense of the Italian Traditionalist philosopher Julius Evola, who uses the term Titanism to refer to a particular type of usurpation of divine power. It accentuates the Faustian revolt against the divine order. Evola characterizes the Titanic civilization as such:

The first type of civilization is the Titanic one, in a negative sense, and refers to the spirit of a materialistic and violent race that no longer recognized the authority of the spiritual principle corresponding to the priestly symbol or to the spiritually feminine “brother” (e.g., Cain vs. Abel); this race affirmed itself and attempted to take possession, by surprise and through an inferior type of employment, of a body of knowledge that granted control over certain invisible powers inherent to things and people. Therefore, this represented an upheaval and a counterfeit of what could have been the privilege of the previous “glorious men,” namely, of the virile spirituality connected to the function of order and of domination “from above.” It was Prometheus who usurped the heavenly fire in favor of the human races, and yet he did not know how to carry it; thus the fire became his source of torment and damnation.[10]

Faustian man, like Prometheus, has stolen fire from the gods, reordering nature to suit his purpose. The Faustian man revolted against nature, as Spengler notes, “The creature is rising up against its creator. As once the microcosm Man against Nature, so now the microcosm Machine is revolting against Nordic Man.”

The expansive Faustian mind seeks to eliminate the barriers imposed by nature itself. Hegel characterizes it as thus, “The principle of the European mind is self-conscious reason which is confident that for it there can be no insuperable barrier and which therefore takes an interest in everything in order to become present to itself therein.” What we see is the drive of Faustian science to “know the mind of God,” which English physicist Stephen Hawking equated with “the ultimate triumph of human reason.” And if it is uncovered perhaps it will do more harm than good. The Spenglerian horror writer H. P. Lovecraft states prophetically in his story “The Call of Cthulhu”:

We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.

The ecological devastation and social chaos sown by the scientific advances of Western civilization seem to validate Lovecraft. However, the Promethean narrative offers a glimmer of hope, a way out. The hero Heracles, son of the Olympian Zeus, frees Prometheus from his torture. Evola states that Heroism, as represented by Heracles in the Titanic cycle, is “the restoration of the Olympian solar spirituality and overcoming of both the Mother and Titan figures.” Considered from the spiritual position of Tradition, the overcoming of Titanic Faustian civilization is possible. However, let us not forget the role of man in fulfilling destiny and let us recognize the need for a new spirit to transcend our declining civilization before it destroys us.

This restoration need not be a return to the “dark ages” of obscurantism. Indeed oriented in the proper direction, the traits we associate with Faustian civilization, such as constant self-overcoming, intrepidity, rising to challenges, are tools for spiritual growth that predate Faustian civilization. From a Traditional viewpoint, they predate humanity itself, they are transcendent, beyond space and time. Evola’s “esoteric reading” of Nietzsche makes this clear:

The cutting of all bonds, the intolerance of all limits, the pure and incoercible impulse to overcome without any determined goal, to always move on beyond any given state, experience, or idea, and naturally and even more beyond any human attachment to a given person, fearing neither contradictions nor destructions, thus pure movement, with all that that implies of dis- solution — “advancing with a devouring fire that leaves nothing behind itself,” to use an expression from an ancient wisdom tradition, though it applies to a very different context — these essential characteristics that some have already recognized in Nietzsche can be explained precisely as so many forms in which the transcendent acts and manifests.[11]

However, these tendencies need to be directed vertically, towards transcendence, not horizontally in the realm of sheer materialism, not manifesting in the need to dominate the world’s physical being. Evola attributes Nietzsche’s mental collapse to the fact that his energy remained on a non-transcendent level, burning him out like a circuit whose current is too strong. Continuing with the contrast between the horizontal plane of life, and the vertical axis of “more than life,” in the sense of George Simmel’s “more than living” (mehrs als leben), we can envision two symbols, the ocean, and the mountain. The divine order stands with the mountain, whereas Faustian Titanism is the realm of the ocean. Western man is faced with a choice. He can conquer himself and ascend the peaks of the spirit, or he conquer the world and disappear past the water’s horizon.